<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Place For You to Stay by Beepun</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648505">Place For You to Stay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beepun/pseuds/Beepun'>Beepun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Tattoos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:06:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beepun/pseuds/Beepun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“So I just have good luck then,” Martin smiles.<br/>“If you can call a half-drowned ghoul flooding your car good luck, sure.”<br/>“I can, I do!” <br/>Gerry shoots him a look, lips curled up in a smile of his own. </p>
<p>In which Gerry and Martin are in love and end up with matching tattoos.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Place For You to Stay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Gerry Week, Day 1: Ink, trust, linger. <br/>Title from Kina Grannis - In Your Arms</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gerry Keay shivers as he stalks his way through Devon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d blame himself for the lack of preparation for the storm, but the morning had started out just fine. Fair weather, not a cloud in the sky, the wind had been frosty but tamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now he was soaked. The cold made his scarred limbs ache, and that made his mood sour as he weaved through the dwindling crowd on the street seeking protection from the rain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was about to follow suit and find a shop to sit in until the storm blew over when a beat-up car pulled beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gerry?” Martin Blackwood pokes his copper curled head out the window, looking as surprised to Gerry as Gerry is to see him. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>His friendship with the library assistant wasn’t something he’d planned on, or even expected to pan out when he’d visited the Magnus Institute. He’d just been caught burning a Leitner, the assistant angry and upset over the blatant arson against institute property until the book started shrieking and leaking black blood. Then came the questions, the concern, and busy bodying that Gerry came to expect and appreciate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin’s joined in on some arson since then. It’s incredibly charming.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The fact that Martin was in Devon only ever meant one thing, considering what Gerry knows about Martin’s life outside of work. Through the rain, he can see tired eyes and a deep-set sadness that lines Martin’s otherwise youthful face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you headed home?” Martin asks as Gerry moves closer to the car. A couple across the street shoot him a look, and when Gerry turns his head to cough into his hand, he gets a glare from an old woman. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re making people think I’m harassing you,” He laughs, “You’re cars gonna get wet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” Martin flushes, then, loudly, for no reason other than his petty nature, “My friend! Do you need a ride?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Gerry rolls his eyes and hurries over to the passenger side, muttering an apology as he sits his wet body down. “You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Martin says, peeling away from the sidewalk. “If I’d known you’d be in Devon today, I could have given you a ride.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, been here for a couple of days.” He says, bringing his aching hands to the air conditioner blasting warm air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So I just have good luck then,” Martin smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you can call a half-drowned ghoul flooding your car good luck, sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can, I do!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerry shoots him a look, lips curled up in a smile of his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This part of their relationship is new. Sure, getting take-out while he’s in town and Martin’s on his lunch break happened early on, but the comfort with which Martin speaks to him is novel. His face always lights up when he appears in the library when the other librarians and guests would glower or look away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t just curiosity or work anymore. When Martin says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gerry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it is with the same comradeship and warmth he’d always hoped for. Maybe a little more, if Gerry allows himself to indulge in fantasy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you doing?” He asks, and Martin only responds with a miserable huff. “Oh, I see, that bad huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I was blasting Celine Dion before I saw you, so. It was-Gosh. It was bad.” Martin relents, his eyes are heavy. “She wasn’t- I mean, she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, yeah of course.” Gerry doesn’t believe that. The way Martin talks about her hints at more conscious malice in her actions than he’s willing to give credit for. But Gerry has had his time with his own horror of a mother, he knows what it’s like. Knows better than to push or blame. “You’re a good son.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” Martin makes a strangled noise, blinks tears from his eyes before clearing his throat. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then they drive in silence. Martin lets him take over the music, and they blast heavy metal until Gerry gets bored and tries to nap. He’s cold despite the warmth of the car, his wet clothes clinging to his limbs like a second skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without much thought, he strips out of his shirt and trousers, looking back for a blanket or a towel. Martin’s car is never the cleanest, and he’s been in it enough times to know the man is prepared for an emergency or two. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, um,” Martin is flushed when Gerry turns back to his seat, successful in finding a small blanket that he uses to wrap himself in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Blackwood.” Martin’s helped patch him back together one too many times, although he’s pleased to get any reaction from the man. “Why do you have this anyways?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it was going to be a gift for Diana’s new kid. Then I just sort of forgot? And sometimes when it’s cold I just use it on long drives?” That makes sense, Gerry nods. “Did you get a new tattoo? It-It looked really nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did. Gerry grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know all my tattoos?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, shut up. I have to drive.” Martin flusters. But he does. He pays attention to that sort of thing, apparently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thought it would be a nice change.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shush,” Martin says, reaching to put the music back on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think it looks nice?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin blasts the music. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>A three-hour drive with anyone takes a toll. He’s been on trips with Mary, with Gertrude, on his own, with anyone else looking out for a Leitner or monster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin tries a game of eye-spy, which Gerry shuts down quickly. Martin requests the change of music to some sort of poetry podcast, and Gerry listens to the things that Martin finds important. He manages a nap, then they talk about what they’ve been up to the last few weeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got a tattoo,” He tries. Martin groans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the drive is over, Gerry’s cheeks hurt from laughing, both with and at Martin. Martin’s face is flushed from doing the same with Gerry, so he calls it fair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to stay the night?” He asks while Martin parks near Gerry’s flat with tired eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think your sofa </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> better than my bed.” Martin turns off the car with a soft sigh before leaning forward until his forehead rests at the wheel. His flat is another half hour away, and the man looks exhausted. Without thinking, Gerry reaches over, smoothing his hand down Martin’s back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, you need to sleep.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Martin relents after a moment, “You need to cover yourself up and be quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Living up my sheet-ghost dreams here,” But he goes. The air outside bites at his skin and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his thawed-out limbs. He gets into his flat, leaving the door open behind him as he rushes towards his room to throw himself into his warmest pair of sleeping bottoms and a sweater of questionable origin. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>“Is that my sweater?” Martin asks as he closes the door behind him. Gerry sits on the sofa, throws, and blankets piled on top of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Gerry lies, rolling up the sleeves. “What took you so long?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Had to get your sopping wet belongings out of my car?” Martin rolls his eyes. “You’re in my bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just trying to get warm,” He says, kicking out his foot to keep Martin from sitting. Despite his attempt, he just drops himself onto Gerry’s shin. “Oh, warm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They talk. Gerry orders take-out, Martin makes tea. Martin remarks on Gerry’s cold feet enough until he gives in and puts on socks, only to find his seat stolen by Martin on his return. He steals it back when their food arrives and Martin goes to answer the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re an ass,” Martin laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s good like this. To have a moment like this with a friend he never thought he’d have. People come and go in Gerry’s life, and when they stay they’re the sort of person where keeping them an arm’s length away is far too close, far too dangerous. But this is different. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to see the tattoo?” Gerry offers, not sure why. But Martin flushes, his freckles washed out by the color. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” Martin puts his food down before nodding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerry shrugs the neck of the sweater off his shoulder, turning for Martin to see it. For extra charm, he makes a show of gathering his dark hair out of the way, which earns him a flick to the back of his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ow.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not that cool, Gerry,” Martin says, voice tired and fond. “But, wow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wow</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A warm touch surprises him. Martin’s fingers press gently against the sensitive skin of his burn scar, now covered in an eruption of colorful flowers, their centers full of intermittent eyes in various stages of being open or closed. The tattoo artist had called it a fantastical grotesque idea and gone above expectation with its execution, working with the natural curve of his scars to bring the art to life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful,” Martin breathes, delicate fingers still against his shoulder. Gerry feels himself burn where their skin meets, at the gentle nature with which Martin touches him. Never anything but careful, never anything but kind. “Oh, s-sorry!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He mourns the loss of contact the moment Martin jumps back, no doubt face flushed red. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad you like it,” He says, ego rising as he turns to find his assumption was right. “Do you need a moment to settle down?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up,” Martin laughs, “That must have taken a while? I-I’ve been thinking about getting one- a tattoo? B-But they’re all expensive or take a bit of time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s a surprise. Exciting. Gerry’s covered in eyes and a smattering of designs of his own creation, planned and those born out of boredom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Latent teenage rebellion?” He jokes, but Martin only dips his head in a bashful way. “Hey, that’s fine! That’s as good a reason as any.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, hell yeah, hold on,” And then he’s gone, rushing to his bathroom where he keeps his makeshift stick-n-poke kit. He rifles through it as he returns, Martin narrowing his eyes at him in response. “We can do something small, stars or flowers or bugs or just lines tend to be pretty popular designs. I can do a black stripe on your-” Gerry wags his right middle finger “- Though if that’s too visible you can also do something on your legs or arms or something easier to cover up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin flushes. His face is a strong shade of red and his eyes are wide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-I didn’t think that far ahead?” He squeaks, and no doubt Gerry has leapt ahead in his excitement. He thinks Martin deserves a tattoo, and he’s a bit too willing to indulge his friend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, sorry.” He sits back down, tattoo kit in his lap. “Don’t want to overwhelm you. I know what they say, tattoos are a-a commitment.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- Well, no. I’m prepared for that, but uh…” Martin motions towards his box. “Didn’t know you did your own?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Done plenty.” Gerry points to the eyes on his knuckles, the lines that follow his wrist up towards his elbow, the stylized ghost on the elbow of his left arm. “That one was a pain. Also did a few birds, bugs, and flowers of my own. Got a grave on my thigh.” He adds with a wink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin eyes him, taking in his work before he sighs. “Did it hurt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I fell from heaven?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take my chances elsewhere, then. Thank you for your time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, wait,” He laughs, grabbing Martin by the arm and pulling him back to his seat. His flat tone always gets to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches out, placing his hand next to Martin’s with his palm facing up. On the pale skin of his wrist, among the paint and burned scars, is a stylized weeping eye. “I can give you the happy one, although I get if eyes are more my style anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I...Wouldn’t mind that?” Martin squeaks again, eyes flicking away from Gerry. That’s interesting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Gerry asks, eyebrows raised. Martin shoots him a look and then shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Might as well! I-I mean I have been thinking about it for a while, and-and I trust you, you’ve got steady hands and-and a good artistic eye.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Gerry blanks, looking at the soft skin of Martin’s wrist. “Maybe not there, not for your first tattoo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hurts the most.” He says, then Martin is a little too close to him. There are needles in his box, and Gerry remembers who he is and what he’s offering. In any other ears, Martin trusting him to do this would sound dangerous. Dangerous and wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Martin,” Gerry warns, and Martin gives him space with a frown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” He says, as though he hadn’t just planned out a matching tattoo on a whim. Well, not a whim. Sometimes whims are the best reason to do anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerry reaches for his box, opening it up to reveal a small bag of cotton balls, a bottle of alcohol, ink, pens, thread, and needles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds out his hand, steady as Martin places his upturned palm in his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s felt this way before, overcome and small under the pressure of something so much grander than him. Martin’s hand is warm, and his trust is misplaced. Given the first chance to hurt him, Gerry had pointed to the sensitive nature of his wrists. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” he asks, once the skin has been cleansed, the needle sanitized and threaded. Martin's arm rests on his thigh, a heavy anchoring presence. He remembers Mary, Eric, and the reason he lost years of his life in prison. He knows Martin knows, knows the man did his research. He’s never seen fear in Martin’s eyes, despite that. “Are you sure about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On a whim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going to hurt me?” Martin asks, voice low and steady. Gerry swallows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he does. He dips the needle into the ink before pressing it into Martin’s skin. He tenses, soft skin and strong muscle in Gerry’s grip, but he doesn’t complain. Gerry pressed the needle into his skin again, and again, and again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He works steadily, wiping away at the access ink with careful strokes, checking in with Martin every few minutes. He’s so warm in his hand, trusting of Gerry’s certainty in a way that is foreign and enthralling. Is this how Mary felt when Eric tried courting her? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How could she look into his father’s eyes and chose to hurt him, if Eric ever looked at her the way Martin looks at him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” he says, looking down at the first layer of ink that stares back at him. He feels entranced and is glad to find that it looks good. Much better than his own first attempts at stick and poke when he was a bored teenager. “We need to go over it again, maybe two more times?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“T-That wasn’t so bad,” Martin says, and his voice is close. His breath is warm against Gerry’s skin. He knows better than to hope, knows that Martin is close enough to feel because of their shared proximity to his tattoo. “I can go again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, tonight?” Gerry snorts a laugh, “Sure, but I’m getting tired. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> here because you’re supposed to be tired.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin laughs at that, a soft thing, as though he’s just remembered his own exhaust. He looks at the eye on his skin, nowhere near dark or thick enough. He’d gone in with a thinner needle. Still, Martin looks at it as though it’s a gift, an act of art done for him and with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Martin says, and they’re still pressed together enough that Gerry could turn his head and close the distance between them. He only does the first and gets surprised to see Martin looking at him too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can still feel Martin’s warm touch on his shoulder and knows that things between them are changing. Have changed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why the eye?” He asks, hoping Martin will know what he’s asking. So rarely do they get a chance to talk, to understand one another. The effort put out by both of them to try means so much to Gerry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because…,” Martin stares, continuing in a conspiratorial tone, “Can I tell you a secret?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Gerry smiles, amused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> so cool, and such a nerd and I miss you when you’re gone. And I like your style, even when I don’t get it. And even if you don’t- don’t feel the way I do, you’ve uh, you’ve changed me...for the better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerry tries to swallow, finds his throat has gone dry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do-do feel,” He clears his throat, “I do feel the same way. You are a nerd.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin laughs at that, and Gerry knows if he moves away Martin won’t bring this up again. The eye on his wrist will be a tribute to Gerry, to his limited space in Martin’s life. And they’ll keep being friends, which already feels like so much more than he deserved. A place outside his own world where monsters exist and the question of how much longer he has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a bad idea,” He says, pitching forward to rest his forehead against Martin’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Martin asks, voice soft and worried.  His free hand comes to press against Gerry’s cheek, warm and solid. After a moment, his hand moves to thread through Gerry's hair. Gerry sighs at the touch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know...about my mother." Strange to find someone with scars so similar to his, a heart so hurt and so worth loving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Martin says softly, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Are you going to hurt me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Gerry answers truthfully, his hands moving to rest at Martin’s broad shoulders. “Not if I can help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Martin pulls away to move upward, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of Gerry’s head, “Isn’t that enough?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you afraid…” There’s so much wrong with Gerry. His past, his present, whatever future he might hold. So little he can actually give someone else. Gerry’s used to his world, doesn’t know how to make space in it for someone like Martin. Maybe he doesn’t have to considering all the space that’s already been made for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of you? Not really. Besides, I know I want to keep missing you. Want to keep worrying about you and feeling this way about you. I like it when you stop by and take the time to visit me. It feels right. I like it, I like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>." </span>
  <span>Gerry pushes his weight against Martin until he is laying on the sofa and Gerry can curl himself up into his arms. "I trust you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Gerry lifts himself to press a kiss to Martin’s cheek and looks down at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t believe we got matching tattoos before we’ve gone on a date,” He presses another kiss to his skin, soft and tender. Then again, then again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is enough.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed this little GMart fic!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>